Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar: A Novel That Sits With You Long After You’re Done
About the Author
Kaveh Akbar was born in Tehran in 1989 and moved to the United States when he was still a toddler. He grew up across different states—New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, Indiana—which probably explains why themes like displacement and identity feel so lived-in in his writing rather than observed from a distance. In Martyr, Kaveh Akbar, the author draws deeply from his own sense of displacement and identity—something that becomes clear once you look at his background.
Before Martyr!, he was already known for his poetry. Calling a Wolf a Wolf and Pilgrim Bell both deal with addiction, faith, and the body in a way that feels raw without being messy. That same voice carries into this novel, though it stretches itself here—sometimes beautifully, sometimes a little too far.
What the Story Is Really About
If you’re looking for a straightforward Martyr! novel summary, you can outline the events. But that’s not really how this book works.
Cyrus Shams is born in Tehran, in the shadow of war. Before he can remember anything, his life is already shaped by loss. His mother, Roya, dies in the Iran Air Flight 655 tragedy—something Cyrus grows up knowing, but never truly understanding.
His father brings him to Indiana and does what many immigrants do: tries to build a life that looks ordinary from the outside. Blend in. Don’t draw attention. Keep things simple.
But Cyrus isn’t built for quiet living. His mind doesn’t stop. He struggles with sleep, with intrusive thoughts, with a kind of mental restlessness that never really lets him settle. Eventually, like in many books about addiction, he finds relief in alcohol and drugs—not because he wants to spiral, but because it finally gives him silence.
After hitting bottom, he gets sober. AA meetings, routines, a job as a medical actor where he performs illness so others can learn how to respond to it. It’s oddly fitting.
And yet, sobriety doesn’t solve the bigger question sitting underneath everything: what do you do with a life shaped by loss?
That question turns into an obsession with martyrdom—not in the traditional sense, but something more personal. Something quieter.
Then comes Orkideh. A terminally ill artist, sitting in a glass room in a museum, talking to strangers about death. Cyrus feels drawn to her in a way he can’t quite explain. Their conversations are strange, sometimes uncomfortable, occasionally almost surreal.
From there, the story loosens. Memory, imagination, past and present—they start to blur. And the novel becomes less about plot and more about how Cyrus is trying, in his own way, to make sense of everything he’s carrying.
That’s why this Martyr! novel summary feels incomplete—because the story isn’t just what happens, but how it unsettles you.
Where the Novel Really Hits
What stands out most in Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar is not the story itself, but the way it keeps circling the same questions without forcing an answer.
Rethinking Martyrdom
The idea of martyrdom—and more importantly, the meaning of martyrdom—is usually tied to something big—religion, war, sacrifice for a cause. Here, it’s much smaller. Or maybe just more personal.
The book keeps nudging you toward a different possibility: what if simply staying alive, especially when your own mind is working against you, is its own kind of martyrdom?
It doesn’t push the idea too hard. It just lets it sit there.
Addiction Without the Usual Narrative
A lot of stories about addiction lean toward transformation. This one doesn’t, at least not in a clean way.
Cyrus gets sober, yes. But it’s not framed as a victory lap. It’s just… something he has to keep doing. Every day. There’s no dramatic turning point that fixes everything.
If anything, it feels closer to real life than most books about addiction and recovery.
Grief That Doesn’t Behave Properly
Among books about grief and loss, this one feels different because Cyrus’s grief isn’t tied to memory. He doesn’t remember his mother. And yet, her absence defines him.
It’s a strange kind of grief. Almost theoretical. But still heavy.
The novel treats grief and trauma less like something to “process” and more like something that just becomes part of you, whether you like it or not.
Immigrant Identity Without Easy Labels
There’s also a quiet thread of immigrant identity running through everything.
Cyrus grows up learning how to fit in, but not necessarily how to belong. The book doesn’t make a big statement about it. It just shows how that kind of upbringing leaves you slightly out of place, no matter where you are.
What Worked Well
There’s a lot to admire here.
For one, the writing. It leans into what you’d expect from experimental literary fiction, but it rarely feels showy. The stream-of-consciousness style fits Cyrus’s mental state so naturally that you stop noticing it as a technique.
There’s also humor, which I didn’t expect going in. It’s not loud or obvious. It just shows up at the right moments, almost as a kind of release valve.
And the novel doesn’t rush to explain itself. It’s comfortable leaving things unresolved, which—if you’re in the right mood—can feel refreshing.
What Didn’t Fully Land
That same intensity can be a bit much at times.
The internal monologue, while effective, occasionally goes in circles. You start to feel the repetition—not always in a meaningful way.
The structure, too, can feel scattered. There are shifts, fragments, surreal moments that don’t always connect as cleanly as they probably should. Some readers will like that. Others might find it frustrating.
And then there’s the late twist involving Orkideh. It’s dramatic, no doubt. But it also feels slightly out of sync with the rest of the book, which had been operating on a more grounded emotional level.
Lines That Stay With You
Some passages just stick. Not because they’re flashy, but because they feel true.
Love was a room that appeared when you stepped into it.
It seems very American to expect grief to change something. Like a token you cash in. A formula. Grieve x amount, receive y amount of comfort. Work a day in the grief mines and get paid in tickets to the company store.
Living happened until it didn’t. There was no choice in it. To say no to a new day would be unthinkable. So each morning you said yes, then stepped into the consequence.
Grace to live at all—none of us did anything to deserve it. Being born. We spend our lives trying to figure out how to pay back the debt of being. And to whom we might pay it.
Final Thoughts
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar isn’t the kind of novel you read quickly and move on from. It lingers, sometimes in ways that are hard to explain.
If you’re drawn to experimental literary fiction, or to books about addiction, grief and trauma, and questions of identity and belonging, there’s a lot here to sit with.
Just don’t expect neat answers.
For the restless mind and the heavy heart, this one doesn’t try to fix anything. It just makes you feel a little less alone while you’re in it. It’s the kind of book you keep thinking about at odd moments—usually when you’re not expecting it.
If You Liked This Review…
If Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar stayed with you—the way it sits in that uneasy space between grief, identity, and survival—you might find a different kind of resonance in Violeta by Isabel Allende. Where Martyr! turns inward, tracing the fragile terrain of the mind, Violeta stretches outward across decades, history, and memory. Yet both novels circle the same quiet question: how do we live with what life hands us, especially when it refuses to make sense? If that’s something you’re still thinking about, you can read the full review here.
